Redline
by QueSyrahSyrah
Summary: "You might as well begin it with 'This story begins where all good begin: in my pants." "That bad?" "You can do better" Peeta always had a way with words, but what happens when a disgruntled copy writer challenges him to stop writing for everyone else and figure out what really he wanted to say in the first place. AU, language, lemons, extreme sarcasm, and the best kinds of tension
1. PrologueTeaser

"It was a Tuesday morning, and upon waking I found that my refrigerator had been emptied and the blinds were pulled off forcefully and now lay on the floor. Next to them were about ten cans of cheap beer and my virginity."

"You might as well begin it with ' this story begins where all good stories begin: in my pants.'"

"That bad?"

"You can do better." I stretched out my left leg, wondering whether I should just get up and leave, or indulge my partner in a little work shopping. I followed the point of my toes up the extended, russet leg to the place where it finally met the navy cotton sheets. I gave into the stretch, luxuriating in the pull of my muscles, allowing the arms to join in.

He was pacing back and forth on my grimy shag carpet and I sunk deeper into my pillow. Everyone once and a while he paused, opening his mouth and pushing his thick glasses back up his nose to get a better look at me. I waited for him to speak, but inevitably he would just stare a while at my bare leg or shoulders and begin retracing his steps once more.

"If I'm making you uncomfortable you can always leave for a moment while I get dressed. Not that it should matter, all of your stories have naked people anyway. " I raised an eyebrow. "Think of this as… inspiration." A slow blush crept across his pale, ruddy cheeks as I began stretching out my body once more, revealing more of my bare skin.

He had caught me at a bad time. After last night I was in no mood for discussing lost chastity and timid virgins and I figured if couldn't be blunt, I might as well make him so damn uncomfortable he would just choose to leave on his own. Besides, the fact that he was wearing jeans so skinny that not even I could fit into them and it seemed as though he hadn't washed his hair in a week in order to obtain perfectly mussed blond tendrils didn't make him anymore welcome.

He always wrote about sex and he wasn't very good at it. Well, perhaps I was just bitter. He was part of a new wave of recently published novels containing detached men and the troubled, self-conscious women who crave their dicks. I remembered the first time they we met, the way he leaned over to speak to me, clearly invading the unwritten laws of personal space. There was nothing particularly sexy about what he had whispered in my ear. I don't even remember what he said, just that it reeked of sincerity and made me want to gag a little.


	2. Ellipses

Eventually I managed to get the pacing Peeta out of my studio apartment. He stood outside in the hallway, waiting for me to dress. I took my time, fingering the silk, cotton, and lace in my closet, feeling slightly hung-over, but mostly fickle this morning. I wasn't planning on leaving the safe confines of my massive, fluffy bed until Peeta bribed me with one of my only two weaknesses, brunch: eggs benedict and a bloody mary, or two, or three, on him.

Last night was rough. I had given in to an old temptation. My body has been inexplicably charged with yearning lately, and last night it felt like I was finally able to release something it had been holding onto for years. I screamed, writhed, and eventually cried under _his_ touch. Yet, the thing that remained with me in the morning was not the trembling of my satisfied body, but the subtle taste of death on his lips.

I let him consume me and I felt like I was on the verge of finally mourning when Peeta burst into my apartment.

I guess I should have been relieved that he found me alone, even though Gale had left hours ago. I didn't feel like confronting what our drunken liaison meant, or asking myself whether I had forgiven him or not.

* * *

Though I was now a copy-editor by trade, I always made time for Peeta whenever he needed something work-shopped, (though I always made him beg for it). We had known each other since… well since I could recall any sort of vague memory. We grew up in the same neighborhood, a project we called "the twelve," though Peeta's family lived on the edge of town, and were fairly well off compared to the rest of us.

We weren't close during high school; we ran in different social circles, but we eventually attended NYU together and were forced to acknowledge the fact that yes, we did indeed know each other. We were both English majors and in the top of our class, though it came much more naturally to him and I shot daggers at him as he drunkenly staggered back to his dorm after I spent another Saturday night in the library.

It shouldn't have been a surprise when we were both hired by the same the publishing company; but my family was gleefully shocked, while his was disappointed. Of course I was a lowly copy-editor in the romance department and corrected grammar whilst reading about "quivering members," and he became the golden boy, his finely woven words earning the company hundreds of thousands of dollars from the get go. No one really understood why he brought every manuscript, every chapter, and every freaking paragraph to my desk, but he didn't care; I was the only one who would be honest with him. I hated most of his new prose, and he lapped up my criticism.

Sighing, I finally I chose black skinny jeans, leather boots and a navy long sleeved shirt and headed outside. The two of us walked silently to our favorite breakfast place, right around the corner from my place in Brooklyn. He wrapped his arm around my waist and I leaned into him softly. I allowed myself to be affectionate with him every once and a while, always thinking back to the day when I realized I could trust him, even if every muscle in my body usually fought against such things…

* * *

**One Year Earlier:**

I paused at the beginning of the dreary street on the upper west side, though the rain was growing fatter and increasingly persistent. I tried to allow myself to become intoxicated by the gray smell of wet concrete Peeta was so fond of but I was unable to find any sort of magic within it. I wondered how long I could stand here, delaying our meeting. I had left my musty raincoat, the one he thought made me look like a jar of mustard at the restaurant a few blocks back. I could circle back and retrieve it. I could delay our meeting by another twenty minutes or so. The wind picked up, whipping stringy hair into my face as I continued onward.

I woke up knowing it was going to be one of those days, one of my nervous days. My hands had begun shaking before the sun had even gotten around to rising. It happens every once in a while, I just wake up after a few hours of sleep, so incredibly exhausted but my trembling appendages and impatient stomach won't let me lie back down. That's where it starts, the stomach. First, the anxiety starts to stew, producing something much like bile and tapioca pudding. Next, a sickly effervescence rises due to the relentless churning and makes it way into my chest, making my lungs feel full and heavy. It continues to climb, trembling, the entire way up my esophagus. But right before it makes it into my cavernous mouth to be released by a strong push of air, it gets stuck at the back of my throat. A web has been woven there, at one point in time fine and thin, only to have grown thick and sticky. I feel unease trapped there, wriggling in this dense mesh.

Perhaps this is why I shattered the plate when he called; just let it jump right out my hands. I had been thinking about disconnecting my phone but figured it was pretty useless considering I couldn't remember the last time anyone had called. Plus I was expecting Gale, anticipating his steadfast voice and whispered apologizes. I even practiced what I would say to him, injecting frost into every syllable until it sounded believable.

It had been a few weeks since the accident but most people I knew were still inching around me, tactfully hovering about the edges of any social sphere I attempted to inhabit until I had properly healed. It was amusing really, the sort of sick pleasure I got watching the eyes of almost everyone I knew when they happened upon me in public. It was like watching an internal tennis match, the pupils darting back and forth, refusing to settle on my face. At first I thought it was because I had been molded into something repulsive or unsettling. Eventually I figured out they were just scouting out exits and escape routes. They were afraid I might get the urge to talk about something significant. Thank God Peeta knew that I had spent the last twenty-one years of my life stubbornly avoiding anything to do with too much emotional substance or depth.

His call was refreshingly typical. Apparently some ancient tree had been uprooted by the storm and fell onto some power lines in front of the poor kid's brownstone. He was a bungling bachelor in need of a source of heat and probably a warm meal. I'm not sure why he didn't just call Glitter, Gloss, Gosmer or whatever the latest cookie-cutter admirer called herself. Perhaps he was in transition again, tossing out one Barbie while ushering the next one in. His was constantly searching for his next muse, the next pair of legs to get his creative juices flowing. He loved and left them all with a strange ease I had always envied. What he really needed was a mother.

I stopped in front of the irritatingly impressive building. Everything surrounding the house was in a state of sopping, bland turmoil, but not this beauty. The brilliant red door and faint glow from the downstairs windows teased me as I stood a few feet from the front stoop studying the uprooted tree in front of the house. The roots were splayed out awkwardly in the air, trying to find something to grab onto other than sidewalk. I reached out to touch the gnarled end of the closest root but quickly withdrew my hand as a projection of a robust shadow flitted across white curtains.

"It's fucking raining!" I retreated further into the thick gray sweater engulfing my shaking body as if it were some sort of buoy sent to protect me from what was now a torrential downpour. I could have rung the doorbell, but I felt like hollering instead.

"What?" A mop of hair jutting out of the windowsill answered me.

"I said it's fucking raining! Let me in!"


	3. Ampersand

**(One Year Earlier... Continued)**

Immediately upon entering the pristine beige haven I felt self-conscious. I rubbed my now sore throat as I dissolved into the scenery. Long ago the distant, elderly chaperons had quit the residence for a "simpler" life in the country, leaving their spoiled offspring a space to waste their money and his talent. An orange smolder had replaced florescent lights and the waxy vanilla scent present made me nervous. Several candles were lit and scattered about the room, offering minimal light and no heat. Peetas's sturdy figure was bent over the fireplace as he wrestled with a box of matches and several haphazardly placed pieces of wood. He had barely glanced at me when he had cracked the door open moments before, quickly turning back to resume his clumsy work.

"I hope you like Paella." I unzipped the dripping sweater revealing a steamy plastic container hidden within its drenched confines. I tossed the sweater on the carpet. I watched him turn at the sound of me dirtying the unpolluted shag ocean beneath us and a familiar pounding in my chest arose as I watched his eyes began the slow crawl up my body.

I'm not reminded of ravenous thirteen-year-old eyes. The ones learning how to mentally undress a woman following the realization that breasts weren't just there to properly fill out t-shirts or saggy monstrosities used by aging aunts as weapons at weddings and bar mitzvahs. Instead, his gaze re-dressed me. He squinted trying to reconcile my frail frame with the mass that had once tackled him on the playground in ninth grade. I shifted my legs, attempting to jut out my hip a little bit, but the waist of my jeans began to slide down the left side of my body ruining the illusion. I know it scares people, the way my clothes no longer fit, my boney ankles, the way my shoulder blade protrudes from my dress; but I don't really care enough to do anything about it. Food just doesn't quite interest me the way it used to. Spaghetti Bolognese, a sloppy dehydrated burger two weeks old, it's all the same to me. I never hated the way I looked, or cursed my curves in any way. Apathy had just finally overcome appetite. Besides, I'm the only one who gets to peak beneath the numerous cotton layers these days.

"You look…" I watched him wave his hand in circles. I could tell he wanted me to supply him with the right word, provide the easy way out; I let the silence build instead. "You look like you might be coming down with something."

"It's just a cold I think. My throat has been acting up lately." I coughed for added emphasis.

"You sounded fine just…"

"It comes and goes. Now give me those matches before you kill someone." I crouched over the brick fireplace and began rearranging the logs, relishing the touch of splintered wood on my skin and ignoring Peeta's hot breath on my shoulder as he crouched down beside me.

"How's the new apartment?"

"Pleasant actually," I was surprised to find that I wasn't lying. "I have this brilliant yellow kitchen and an old cat. He reminds me of you actually." I snorted while he rolled his eyes in disdain.

"I couldn't get rid of him if I tried. He's pretty demanding despite the fact that he just lolls about most of the day. He bats my feet around every morning when my alarm goes off. I know it's just because he wants to be fed, but sometimes I like to pretend that Buttercup sincerely cares for my general wellbeing and whether I make it to work on time."

His arm brushed mine as he rose. I managed to do in five minutes what eluded him all day and a rather substantial source of heat crackled before us.

"You better be careful, first it's a home and a cat and then, before you know it, you might actually have a life," he teased.

"Sounds dreadful." I could hear the logs burn and knew the food was getting cold. "So why did you really call me today? Was it the tree? I'm assuming it knocked out the power…"

"I missed you." He stared at the wall behind me as he answered.

"Right. The last time we were in the same room together you barely spoke two words to me."

"I missed you then too."

"I don't believe you."

His eyes didn't move from the wall.

"Look, I don't believe you." I was growing increasingly frustrated, trying to rein in my pent up anger, "at the reading, you acted like you didn't even know me, like you hadn't seen me puke by the tire swing in first grade, or beat up Cato in tenth grade after he told the basketball team I fooled around with him after practice. Good lord, you know more about me than I can stand and you treated me like a mere acquaintance."

"You brought him."

"Excuse me?"

"You brought fucking Gale to my first reading. That was my soul in those words and you brought Gale. The same Gale that...Jesus." He sighed, "I had waited so long for that moment but every time I saw you look up at him with those big gray eyes of yours like some stupid lost puppy I got dizzy. The room was spinning, and you wore long sleeves so no one could get a look at your spindly little arms, and I couldn't act as if I was happy you were there. So yes, I pretended I didn't know you because all I wanted to do was reach out and shake you and shake you and shake you. 'He didn't mean it, you'd tell me, he just really emotional right now. You started the fight. The accident has been hard for everyone.'"

"How many times do I have to tell you before you get it? It WAS an accident!" I tried to keep calm, but my rising voice gave me away.

"I miss her too but that doesn't mean I run around -" I cut him off quickly.

"Do we have to talk about this?" My voice cracked mid sentence, "It's over, and it's done with. He left town and I'm too tired to do this. I just won't do this right now."

"You started it."

"Oh that's real mature. Now," I stepped to the left so he was forced to make eye contact, "why did you contact me? If I've been nothing but a colossal fuck-up, why now?"

"Haymitch called." He let out the breath he had been holding. "He told me about Dr. Aurileius."

And there it was. His sentence hung in the air, twisting and curling about the two of us like veiled cigarette smoke. Our unspoken agreement suddenly violated, my thoughts turned to fantasies of bolting for the door. I was supposed to come over, make food, replace his mother for an hour or two, and then go about my business. That's how it works. No questions, no anxious looks, no interventions of any kind. I talk in my own time. He knows this. He is supposed to know this.

" Oh yes, Dr. Disingenuous."

"Dr. what?"

"He touched me." He looked startled. "Just on my shoulder once. He sort of reached over and set his hand there awhile looking at me with these horrible, watery eyes, like he was going to start crying or something. He also had ghastly teeth. They were too distracting. I couldn't talk to him. Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Must you be so difficult?"

"Yes," I quipped. "Must you speak to Haymitch?"

We just stood there awhile, shifting weight and memorizing walls. I thought about my wet sweater still on the floor, and whether I fed the cat before I left the house. I wondered how Peeta spent most of his time and whether he ever thought about me as he went about his day.

"Does it still hurt?" He locked his eyes to mine, ignoring the air between us pregnant with some unknown sentiment, some unwanted bastard child. Years passed before his calloused hand braved the dense atmosphere surrounding us. I struggled against the urge to flee, or at least avert my gaze. Cautiously, his hand paused beside the left side of my face. I flinched instinctively. I knew what was to come next but I feared the anticipated action almost as much as I desperately craved sincere human touch.

His fingertips brushed aside the limp hair hanging next to the side of my face and began traveling across the brilliant bruise that spanned the wide expanse between the corner of my eye and my hairline. I could feel him lightly trace the deep purples and the spot of navy only to move on to trembling greens and finally resting on the muted mustard border. There was a confidence in the way he held his hand to my face, an unwavering refusal to give into fear or politeness.

"Have I ever told you that yellow is my favorite color?" He breathed the words over my face as I put the fact in my pocket. "Yellow isn't an easy color to pin down. There aren't really any good yellow acrylics out there, but this…" he turned my face from side to side,

"this palette you're sporting here is pretty striking..." I should have hauled off and slugged him in the stomach the way I used to before his disconcerting growth spurt our sophomore year, but instead I let the corners of mouth turn up ever so slightly.

"You can be a real jerk sometimes you know that?"

"Well, that makes me just your type doesn't it?"

"Watch your mouth."

"We were together once, it's not that big of a stretch."

"We were in Kindergarten" my smile made a rare appearance, straining the side of my face, "and you were far too needy."

"Eat a cookie." He finally lowered his hand. "You won't survive the winter looking the way you do now."

We let the moment simmer, basking in a snug silence. Then, just as I thought he was about to make a swift retreat into the kitchen he lowered his head and pressed his lips against my forehead. Suddenly, I am six years old. It is the Fourth of July and I'm afraid the fireworks will rain booming scorching terror down upon me. Everyone stares up into the heavens except for Peeta whose lips graze my furrowed brow. It is that glorious time before breasts, bikinis, hormones, and heartache and my forehead tingles in the aftermath of the completely unselfish act.


	4. Backslash

Usually, I exchanged homemade meals for companionship. They cooked, I lingered. I loved to watch someone transform raw materials and unfamiliar spices into one cohesive dish. I would begin by trying to prattle on about something inconsequential and hovering, but usually tapered off as I took a seat at the table, preferring to study looks of concentration framed by steam or puffs of flour. There is something very similar about becoming lost in a narrative and becoming lost in a recipe. You get so caught up in the chopping, stirring, grilling, side dishes, hors d'ouevers, and desserts that you forget the big picture until it all comes together to form one harmonious flow of sustenance.

Today, my breakfast and prose was served up in pre-packaged form. I was on my second bloody mary and Peeta was rubbing his temples in aggravation, trying not to look up at me as I read over the latest pile of lust and bravado that would be okayed by his editor regardless of my input.

"So," he began tentatively, releasing his worried hands to trace circles on the table with the condensation from his water glass, "I take it you had a rough night."

I continued deliberately scratching against the papers in front of me with my red pen. Watching the red ink bleed slowly into the fibers surrounding the jumbled sentences and sentiments helped me forget the way my body rose and shook at _his_ will, a helpless marionette.

"You know your silence just allows me to fill in the blanks on my own…"

His eyes bore into me, his fingers still tracing suggestive patterns in the moisture gathering around his cup.

My eyes snapped up challenging his irritatingly cobalt orbs, "What is the one rule I ask you to follow?"

He grinned, "Never interrupt your 'process'…" His grin was soon a smile, "though it can't be all that hard to rip me to shreds. You're just so damn good at it!"

My fingers curled tightly around the pen anchoring me to the table.

"That was more of a general warning Mellark. Nice try."

I hadn't moved my eyes from his, refusing to be the first one to break the stare. As usual, he won. His taunting smile broke my steely reserve and I rolled my eyes heavenward.

"Rule number one: keep out of my personal life. I act and rationalize how I like; my impulses and needs aren't finding their way into one of your bestsellers."

Though Peeta looked slightly shattered, I wouldn't take back my rule. He should know by now that I talk in my own time, not whenever he needs inspiration or someone to chastise. After I had read over enough of his prose, and found more than just a coincidental mentioning of my peculiar and often neurotic habits within his leading ladies, I began withholding the more vulnerable details of my private life.

It's not as if I cared that he fantasized about me in some way, I didn't even care if I was slightly romanticized and buried within a fleeting paragraph. I gathered that he had some sort of infatuation with me in high school, and after that faded away into an unadulterated friendship we did nothing more than tease each other about our non-existent love affair. Whatever fantasy he had of me existed only in sixteen year-old memories and hardly concerned me now. What I hated were his heroines. They were simpering, self-conscious, flimsy beings. They were often damaged and would succumb to the first man that roughly bent them over a table as long as it made them feel desirable. Usually they would throw an emotional fit of some sort afterwards as the main character stared off stoically, wishing he could feel the same pain she felt. Inevitably, all he could feel was hollowness.

Sure, one of his characters had a weak spot right under her left knee that made her legs buckle just like me, and another only smoked cigarettes if she was mulling over something she didn't want to talk about, but these were the scraps of me he could have. What he wasn't allowed to touch was the distressed girl who looked for resolution last night. The girl who gave herself over to every twinge and lustful sob. The girl who demanded that her lover leave soon after she released herself so she could break down in peace. That girl was a complex version of the character he was continually attempting to recreate; his girl was trying to prove that she was worthy of love and desire, and this girl just wanted to prove that she could feel something beyond a fierce impulse to survive tinged with anger. This girl knew she was infinitely dynamic and powerful, but was trapped in an unreliable frame everyone underestimated. If he wanted to write about another lithe, lost little girl looking for the hands that would bring her to life, he needed to look elsewhere.

* * *

"I don't see it, that section got rave reviews in the office." Peeta was slumped over on the table, his fingers once again wearing a deep hole into his temples, now bright red from irritation.

I circled a sentence in bright red, "A woman would never do that." I poked at it defiantly.

"What do you mean?

"She wouldn't ask for her pants back and wink. I'm not even sure she would want him to look as she got dressed."

"Why not?" His gaze was clouded and lost.

"Have you ever tried to put on a pair of tight pants? You have to sort of shift your weight from side to side, and then when they hit your hips you do this spastic hop before sucking in your gut and buttoning it all up."

He took a deep breath, "alright, what about this part, the section that you practically tore open with your stupid red pen of death." He was clearly frustrated, and I didn't want to test his patience, but I knew we had to solider through the last paragraph if I wanted to get out of here anytime soon.

"Cut out the part at the end, you know, the bit that describes all the grand sweeping metaphysical garbage involved in the action. Just leave the deed, the bare-boned facts. Leave some breathing room for interpretation."

"What are you talking about?" His head was now on the table, his hands stretched out before him, a cheap diner martyr.

"Look, I just think you could do without all the lofty euphemisms. They're our age, it isn't about some transcendent verb; it's about plumbing and sticky truths."

"I don't necessarily understand why getting at the 'truth' has to be the sole objective of every piece of writing. What about fairy tales, or science fiction?"

"You can use fantasy to arrive at a basic truth. But this only arrives at ego stroking and an impossibly satisfying orgas-"

"Stop. We already went over this. I am not discussing the literary merits of dirty laundry and cellulite."

* * *

After a tense few heartbeats, our places had been cleared along with any leftover animosity. I handed back the precious pieces of prose to Peeta and he gathered them up anxiously, stuffing them back into a folder in his messenger bag.

"There's something that's been on my mind." He looked at me, eyebrow slightly crooked, "I thought today might not be the best day to ask considering how I found you this morning…" at this I lightly kicked his shin under the table.

He winced slightly and continued, "but seeing as how you're already 3 drinks deep I figure why not…"

"Oh for Christ's sake just spit it out Blondie." I may be buzzed, but I wasn't in the mood for games, and I desperately craved a cigarette, something I could only partake in after we left.

"You always criticize my sex scenes. It's usually pretty damn brutal." He looked at me for some sign of repentance, but I merely shrugged my shoulders.

"So tell me, as an intelligent, contemporary woman, how should I be writing these intimate moments in a way that will _satisfy_ my female readers?" His look was challenging, but the spiced vodka had made me bold.

"Honestly, it comes down to one essential element of sexuality that I just don't think we'll ever agree on."

"Oh, and what is that?"

"The girls in your novels get off on being 'taken.'" He shrugged almost imperceptibly, urging me on, "even if that means being humiliated in some way." His mouth dropped slightly, but he didn't argue.

"Now, maybe it's just me, but I don't want to be humiliated… I want to be empowered by desire. What fun is sex if you know you'll never have the chance to be dominate and demand what you need?"

He leaned in closer, but his look was still challenging, "Have you ever considered that you've worked in the romance department for so long that your views on sex are warped?"

"I'll give you that." I sighed and leaned back into the booth. "After reading about how Reginald rips open Anya's bodice, only to find her bosom heaving with trepidation and desire day in and day out, it starts to feel a little cliché."

Peeta's smirk grew and he began strumming his fingers against the table, clearly invigorated by my response. "Alright Everdeen, if clichéd romance isn't your thing, what do you fantasize about? Clearly not Reginald…"

I laughed softly, leaning in and settling my elbows on the table. I knew I'd regret it later, but at this very moment, all I wanted was to spew ever bit of honesty I had left in me and get a rise out of the cocky man across from me. If he wanted to pick up our ongoing game of provocative chicken, then I was more than game.

"Honestly, the more sickeningly sweet and tender the shit I have to edit is, the dirtier my fantasies get.

"Enlighten me."

"Fine," I settled in closer, giving him a good look at my cleavage and forsaking the rational part of my brain.

"Sometimes I fantasize that I'm in a seedy night club, glowing red and full of shadows I can't make out." He leans in closer, clearly intrigued.

"They call out my stage name and a slowly make my way over to the pole." His eyes get incredible wide at this, now _very_ intrigued.

"I don't see anyone's face while I'm on stage, because I'm doing it for me and only me. It makes me feel good. I jump up on the pole and wind my way down." I let one of fingers trace my lips, giving the illusion that I am completely lost in thought.

"I slowly remove my shirt while one leg wraps around the silver anchor in front of me and I lean back, arching my back."

Part of me begins to feel bad, I'm clearly making Peeta a little bit uncomfortable, but he asked for it, and it's not like he's backing away from me. In fact, he just keeps leaning in closer.

"Eventually, I begin crawling towards the front of the stage, and at the very end, I see my lover. I nearly reach him when I roll over, lying on my back, legs spread in front of him. I inch my tiny skirt down my legs, and all that's left are my satin panties and bra. I slowly rise and sway my hips back and forth in front of him, before I stand up and make my way back to the pole." I see Peeta trying to stifle a gulp, his adam's apple twitching in his throat.

"The song is almost over, and I grind myself against the metal, starting to get off, not caring who sees. At the very end of the song, I drop my ass down in front of a random patron behind me, and slowly bring it back up as he tries to grab me and pull me back towards his lap, but he can't. I spin around once more and then saunter off stage, back to my dressing room, where I have my way with my lover, gripping his hair tightly and pulling him into me."

"Shit." Peeta whispers, shocked and nearly breathless

"I know," I chuckle and bat his arm playfully, "that's what happens when you let a woman stew in a world full of "perfect" romance." I pull back and look at him innocently, biting my lower lip slightly; "she just wants to get a little raw and filthy."

Peeta is still speechless, and I laugh even harder now, "let's get you home to your girlfriend before you combust lover boy."

I leave the booth and head for the door as Peeta follows in a daze. The walk back to my apartment building is quiet, and I smirk as he tries to keep a straight face. When we finally make it to the door I finally turn to face him so I can finally put him out of his misery.

"Peeta," I make sure I'm looking him in the eyes, "You want honesty? I'm tired, ambitious almost to a fault, and perpetually at a loss for what I really want. Honestly, my reoccurring fantasy is someone rubbing my back as I sprawl out on the couch and try to forget about my day."

His blue eyes are still searching my face, looking for queues that let him know what he should believe and what he should forget.

"Feel free to use the stripper scenario in one of your upcoming chapters though," I lean in and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, "see you on Monday champ, and say hi to Clove for me."

He remains still as I punch in the code to my building and disappear behind the heavy door. As I climb the stairs I wonder if he'll think of me after his girlfriend falls asleep tonight.


	5. Parentheses

_Hello all! I'm sorry it took so long to update. I got mad outlines for this piece so it shouldn't happen in the future. Probably. Also, just so it doesn't throw you for a complete loop, every three chapters or so I'll be switching POVs between Katniss and Peeta. Thanks for reading!_

**Peeta:**

I exited the subway and embraced the chill in the air as I made my way to my place. I needed the breeze to calm my nerves before I saw Clove. I couldn't stop my mind from relentlessly replaying Katniss' little performance at the diner.

I knew exactly what she was trying to do, pushing her chest out at me, drawing my attention to her lips, and making me harder with every fictional spin around the pole. I knew this weekend was going to be difficult, but I didn't think she'd try to distract me with sex. Or that it would work.

Inconvenient emotions. Irrational lust. It's how we always joked around with each other; but now more than ever I wondered if the joke was that she knew how easy it was to manipulate me because of the way I felt about her, or if she was still clueless and believed she couldn't get a rise out of me unless she came up with something particularly raunchy.

I had to stop thinking about fucking her; right now I was supposed to be focused on blind violence and trauma. It was a stroke of luck that I had gotten through to her a year ago; I had no idea what the first anniversary of the accident held for all of us. Finn couldn't get her to let him into her apartment last night so I had to make up some excuse to get over there early this morning. She was still in one piece, but the combination of her red-rimmed eyes and the lingering smell of sex in her apartment did nothing to ease my worries. Johanna was on watch tonight and had managed to get Katniss to agree to meet up for a drink, which was reassuring even though we all knew Gale was lurking around in the periphery waiting to self-destruct with her.

I walked the few steps up to my door and struggled to fish my keys out of my pocket. My apartment used to be the one place she could always find me. Even before the accident, when her and Gale were passionate and hell bent on destroying each other, yet relatively normal, she'd end up on my doorstep clad in a flimsy dress and little else, shivering. Now my home was the place I shared with my insatiable girlfriend. A place where Katniss only left anxious, creased notes on my doorstep when she couldn't sleep and she'd walk miles of the city by herself.

I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket. Johanna.

"The eagle is nursing her gin and tonic. I repeat: the eagle is nursing her gin and tonic."

I chuckled slightly as I pushed the heavy door open, a bit early for Jo's part of the plan, but I knew she was having as hard of a time staying away from her as I was. As long as the night ended with greasy food and bitching about our co-workers instead of an empty handle of whiskey and a couple of pills next to a catatonic Katniss, we were in the clear.

* * *

After take out and a few beers, Clove heads out into the night, meeting up with someone I only vaguely remembered. Honestly, I couldn't find it in me to give a shit. She dabbled in both genders, but I knew she'd always come back to me. I met Clove at NYU and while I only hung out with her and her group of friends freshmen year I found that she emerged post graduation far more tolerable and willing. The last couple of years have been tempestuous and stimulating and I found that she was the one woman who stuck by me throughout my evocative career as a "misogynist smut peddler" (Katniss' words).

Almost everything about my writing is sexual in nature. It sells and I like to please. What most people don't get is that I am always the reluctant, wide-eyed heroine in my novels, trying to keep up with the sexually deviant and promiscuous lead character. It grieves me that more men don't know the pleasure of being submissive, of surrendering to their partner's every whim and fantasy.

Some part of me always wonders if that is why I am so attracted to Katniss, even as just a loyal confidante and friend. When we were little, she was never afraid to boss me around. I have a distinct memory of the two of us in sixth grade, partnered up for some science project. We were meant to go out into the woods, which was somewhat of a feat for a group of inner city kids, and identify the different birds we saw along the way. Once we got to the woods she quickly informed me that there was no need for me to join her. She knew all the birds and their calls by heart; I'd only get in her way. I'd already followed her upstate, so I merely shrugged and sat on a large boulder near the lake bordering Madge's family cabin and attempted to sketch the day away as she completed the assignment.

I hoped this was the Katniss that I would inevitably encounter tonight, the girl that emerged from the woods victorious, free, and confident. Yet, when I felt my phone buzzing in my back pocket I prepared myself for the worst.

* * *

"Jo, SLOW DOWN!"

"I'll fucking SLOW DOWN when you stop yelling at me!"

She had a point, and I attempted to calm my voice, "Sorry Jo, I just thought everything was going well… and we could avoid…"

I paused, running my hands through my hair as I walked swiftly out of the subway station

"I thought we might be able to escape this one."

I heard a weary scoff on the other end, "yeah, well your fucking brainless my friend."

I picked up my pace knowing that I needed to get to the bar, not really for the inevitably imploding Katniss, but for Johanna. Soon she'd be struck with the fact that she was in a situation she couldn't control and that she actually cared about anyone else, and soon she'd run. I wish I had her common sense.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

I hear here sigh heavily into the phone, "I told you… about a half hour ago. I saw her wash down a pill with her drink while I was at the bar and when she stumbled to the bathroom I stole the prescription bottle out of her purse."

I couldn't help but smile at this, "Thank God you were such a delinquent when you were a kid."

"Yeah, I knew my pick pocketing skills would be useful for something other than stealing six packs from Stop N' Shop."

As I rounded the block of the bar I paused and finally asked for the answer I really didn't care to know, "So what does the bottle say, Jo?"

"It's her mother's Lorazapam."

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers, "Well, at least she'll be pacified."

"Yeah, big scary Kat is going to be a fucking mewling kitten once it kicks in. It should make it easier for her to get over her guilt before Gale picks her up."

"You're kidding me."

"I may have pocketed her cell phone. Drunk Katniss is really fond of emoticons."

"Yeah," I exhale, walking faster towards the bar, "for an editor she was also sort of horrible with words."

I'm almost there when I hear Johanna speak slowly into the phone, "Please get here. I have to leave. You're so much better at this shit." She pauses, whispering, "I can't see this. I can't watch it again." She abruptly hangs up.

* * *

I didn't even need to make my way into the dingy bar to find my target. Though it was nearly imperceptible, I could make out the end of her braid whip around the side of the bar. I sauntered towards the ally way but stopped myself short.

There she was, the girl I had fantasized about for years pressed up against the guy that left blue and black handprints on her arms and thighs in an ally. She was pushed against the side of the building as he ground his hips into her. I thought of charging towards him, slamming my fist into his face until he stopped, but I couldn't avoid seeing the way she ground herself back against him.


	6. Back Matter

**Peeta:**

It was as if I was staring at a terrible car crash and couldn't look away; ironic considering the girl in question. I could tell she was barely holding herself up against the wall and relied on his arms to keep her from sliding down unceremoniously onto the ground. I glared as he whispered into her ear and his hand traveled slowly down her curves. She smirked and reached under her short, spandex skirt. I watched, awe struck as she slowly lowered her panties down her legs and faced the dark-haired man with what I'm sure was supposed to be a sexy look, but merely came off glazed and distant.

I had a choice now. I could turn around and let her follow through with whatever form of self destruction she had planned for tonight, or I could step in and risk my face being pummeled.

I closed my eyes and tried to consider my options, but all I could think about was the scant lace panties sliding down Katniss' legs.

It wasn't fair. This was the girl I had fantasized about for years. She was friends with Gale for years before she agreed to date him, and it took another two years before she let him take her completely. One night she broke down in the library and told me she wasn't sure about giving away such a personal part of herself to someone who only felt like fire. I still hate myself for that night, when I convinced her she was holding out for a novelistic fantasy. I told her to let go of the fallacy of true love and pure ecstasy that supposedly came along with merely pushing two sweaty bodies together. No matter what she did it was bound to be awkward and it would hurt.

Despite that painful night when I pushed her into another man's arms, for what I thought was my own wellbeing, I still wasn't rid of the dream in which I was the first to push into her. I knew I'd be gentler than Gale. I'd be patient; I'd wait for her to be settled and stretched before going forward. I'd kiss every tear away from the side of her face, her cheek, and her jaw when I finally took the last part of her innocence. I'd pay attention to every gasp and sigh instead of jerking forward greedily. I'd make sure that she enjoyed herself as much as I did.

This fantasy was just that… a fantasy. I brought myself back to the present as the beautifully precious woman I'd admired attempted to give herself to someone she couldn't even make eye contact with in a dim alley way.

I was broken from my reverie as I heard him grunt as his hands made their way up her skirt, "Fuck baby, for someone who never wanted to see me again you're pretty damn ready for me."

Seriously? Even Katniss giggled at his line, and I realized how out of it she was.

I stepped forward and put my hand on his shoulder, throwing him off balance and turning him to face me.

"What the fuck man?"

The man in front me was clearly frustrated, his pants already unzipped, but he edged away from me regardless. We'd been down this road before, and it never ended well for either of us. As he backed up, my eyes fell upon Katniss. Her lips twitched into a smile when she saw me, but she was clearly confused. She reached out for Gale's shirt, but unable to grab it, she began to stumble towards me.

"Peeta!" She finally let herself breathe out when she was flush against my body, gripping me tightly and nuzzling my chest.

"I missed you!" She picked her head up from my chest and I tried to make out some kind of presence in her eyes.

Finding nothing, I looked back at her increasingly pissy man-friend, trying to speak as calmly as possible. "Look, I feel like it's fair to say she's had enough to drink tonight –"

Suddenly he decided to grow a pair. He cut me off and stepped behind Katniss, placing his hands on her hips firmly.

"So why's that any of your fucking business?" He muttered half to me, half to Katniss' slumped back.

"Well, as the guy that's taken care of her for the last year, I'd say it's a lot of my fucking business. Now I could pound you into the wall for holding my girl's panties… or you can run as far away as you can, as fast as you can."

"She's not your girl Mellark! You can make all the threats you want, but she'll always find her way back to me."

I could feel the rage boiling and my fists were balled up and strained at my sides. I reached for Katniss and propped her against the wall of the bar nearest to me.

He stepped towards me and we were soon chest-to-chest staring each other down. He didn't know I was a frequent attendee of anger management, but she did. When he shoved me, I immediately launched myself on him, quickly connecting my fist to his face and pinning him to the ground as he clutched his face in shock.

"Hit me all you want, you'll never understand her the way I do Mellark. You weren't there." He wiped the spot of blood splattered on his cheek.

I was positioned on top of him now, my fist raised when I heard it,

"Stop it! STOP IT!"

"Wait… no… this isn't…" she was crying, trembling, foggy, and slowly sliding down the wall.

Against my better judgment I released him and made my way over to her. I stroked her arms, running my hands up and down until her convulsive shivers began to dissipate.

"Shhhh baby… I'm going to get you home." I whispered into her ear, trying to bring her back to the here and now, but I could tell she was slipping further and further into the ether.

I should have been watching my back, but I was lost in her.

Eventually, the douche bag spoke up: "You can have her for now pretty boy. Just remember that she loved me. Still does. All it's going to take is for her to accept that this was all just a fucking accident."

I could tell he wanted to maul me. I didn't blame him, I want to punch him into oblivion; leave him bruised, broken, and unrecognizable. But he realized something I refused to acknowledge after all these years; when it came to Katniss, maybe the pain wasn't worth it.

I merely grimaced and growled, "GO! Don't make me regret it."

Gale disappeared down the street and I turned my attention back to the broken girl in front of me. She was still shaking and her eyes were focused on something beyond me, off in the distance.

"Katniss, baby, look at me." I gripped her chin and turned her face towards me. Her eyes grew wide with shock, which was exactly what I wanted, checking how dilated her pupils were.

"Can you hear me?" She wasn't rolling on anything extreme, but she was definitely about ready to pass out.

After searching for my face for a few seconds and trying to comprehend the question she finally let out a tentative, "Y-y-yes."

"Good, now what did you take tonight?" I asked her, knowing I couldn't get a straight response. At least it distracted her from the fact that I was dragging her towards the nearest cab.

"Nothing that I brought." She said with a smirk as her legs gave out.

"Fine. Kat, what did the nice man give you?" I tried to pull her up, but she threw herself down to the ground. I was damn near ready to leave her squatting outside of the dingy bar.

She was silent for a while, staring at the nothingness beyond my shoulder. She smiled for a moment, a creepy look of bliss on her features suddenly twisted and she shot up to her feet in a fit of rage.

"Fuck you!" She finally looked at me, right before she brought her hands to my chest and shoved me backwards.

"I was going to get laid and you ruined it! Why?" She was clutching her head now, holding both of her hands up to her ears forcefully. She wasn't waiting for an answer from me.

After a few minutes, I slowly inched my hands towards hers. Carefully I peeled her hands from her ears and wrapped them around me, pulling her into my chest. Softly, I tried to soothe her, "Kat, you're a bit out of it."

We finally managed to stand up and Katniss began to sway, as if we were performing some sort of awkward middle school slow dance on the sidewalk.

"What did your mom give you?"

"She said it would make me relax." She sighed into my chest and began to slump instead of sway. "Mom's favorite."

Fucking Lorazapam. I wonder how much.

"I was being silly." She finally looked at me, with wide innocent grey eyes, stifling a giggle. I didn't know this girl, letting her emotions fly freely and clutching my shirt desperately. Deception at its finest. "I told him I was delicate, and that if he wanted to take me home, he had to be gentle with me."

Fuck. Just hearing her say it made me slightly hard. "I don't think that's very funny Kat."

"Of course you don't." She shoved me again and released herself from my grip, stomping towards a random cab.

"You're Peeta Mellark!" She screamed into the ether.

I quickly strode over to the taxi I flagged earlier, offering to pay a generous tip if they stuck around, but she halted right before she got to the car, her eyes now wild and frantic.

"You have a successful career!" She shoved me again.

"A sexy girlfriend!" Another push.

"A clean bill of mental health!" I moved out of her reach and she stumbled forward.

She caught herself by the hands and though I could tell she was decently scraped up, she was laughing. "Not to mention those damn blue eyes of yours that just… know! I can tell they always know." This caught me by surprise. She managed to pull me to the ground when I reached a hand down to her and climbed on top of me, straddling me near the curb of the street.

She slumped into my chest.

"Please, please let me get you a taxi home. We're really close."

She perked up at my offer, "Fine! Fine, Peeta Mellark, perfect fucking person!" She pushed herself off of me and stumbled to the passenger side of the taxi.

We were finally tucked in and moving. Our ride was relatively silent until we approached my apartment.

"Judge me all you want. I would have fucked him."

I could feel the familiar boiling and churning in my gut as I leaned over, whispering angrily in her ear, "Can you act like you even slightly care about yourself for five fucking seconds!"

"Fine." She exited the cab and after throwing money at the cabby, I grabbed her wrist, turning her around.

"You deserve better than that." For the first time that night our eyes truly met.

She leaned in and her left hand caressed the side of my face as she whispered into my ear,

" I know."

She kissed my cheek before pulling away.

As she swayed up the stairs to my brownstone she spoke over her shoulder, "But it's so much easier waking up hating myself than hating the whole God damn world for taking her away from me."

I sometimes breathe a sigh of relief when I realize Clove isn't home, but tonight I nearly sank to my knees is glorious prayer when I realized we were alone. I lay Katniss down on the sofa, and carefully pull the heels from her feet as she seemed to fight consciousness. I was filling up a glass of water in the kitchen when I heard the crash.

Damnit, I didn't even hear her get up.

I ran towards the sound and could only digest the scene in bits and pieces. The bathroom. The damn mirror. Jagged pieces of glass littered the floor. Red seeping from her knuckles. The way that she stared at her hand in awe, silent tears streaming down her face.

"Katniss…Katniss love what did you do?" I asked, my voice cracking and breaking as I dropped to the floor and slide next to her.

"I thought I didn't want to feel anything. That's why I asked him to meet me… why I took those little white pills."

She was quite for another beat before she turned towards me.

"It all feels familiar. It feels like a family."

Fuck. That meant I was right and she was pumped full of liquor and meds. For a minute I was mildly impressed she had the energy and coordination to put her fist through my mirror, but that gave way to fear as I watched her sob, completely broken on my bathroom floor.

"Shhhh…. shhhh… don't move love."

I reached for the nearest hand towel and wet it before gently cleaning the cuts on her hand.

"And then I realized I couldn't feel my body, but I could still feel everything else. I could still feel the bruises inside. So I thought, what if he fucked me? Maybe then I'd feel something else."

I was searching through my medicine cabinet for some kind of bandage when I felt her pull on my pant leg, looking up at me blankly

"It wouldn't have worked, would it?"

"No baby, it wouldn't."

I grabbed some gauze and began wrapping it around her hand tightly.

"I hate it when you call me baby." She scowled.

"I know." I tried to suppress my smirk.

"But I like it when you call me Love."

I let the corner of my moth lift, but my eyes didn't leave her hand.

"She wouldn't have wanted any of this, would she?" She pulled her hand back and I finally met her gaze.

"We can't think about that right now. Let's just think about what she would have wanted for you right now."

I lifted my hand slowly and placed it on her cheek, rubbing it softly with my thumb.

"Not this. She believed in Prince Charming you know. She'd want me and Gale to work out. She…" she chuckled softly "…didn't it go so…. so sour?"

"I don't imagine Prince Charming would have given you a black eye."

"Ha! Probably not. I don't know what she'd want right now. I just know that she'd think…..I'm disgusting." I dropped my hand from her cheek. She gazed at me, tired and completely defeated

"You know that right? That's why you'd never touch me." She lowered her head, staring at her fist now wrapped in gauze, stroking it slowly with her other hand.

"Katniss… what are you talking about?" I was tired too and didn't want to play any of games.

"It should have been me you know," she whispered so quietly I could barely her it.

Suddenly her head shot up, and she began shouting, "WHY!? WHY PRIM AND NOT FUCKING ME!"

She was red and shaking, but I knew better than interrupt her. She needed to say this out loud.

"I'M DISGUSTING! I'M DIRTY! I'M HORRIBLE!" She was scratching at her arms, as if she could strip the dirt off of her skin.

"I CAN'T FUCKING LOVE ANYONE!"

I grabbed her shoulders and shook her as hard as I dared to. This seemed to calm her down and she took a few deep breaths. She was still shaking but she was no longer screaming.

Her gray eyes bore into mine, "she could have had it all, a husband, children. I don't even know if I'll ever want that."

She let out a heavy sigh, "what a stupid God damn world this is that let her die and me live."

It scared me, when she talked like this. Right after Prim died in the crash she used to mumble about leaving us to go find her.

I reached out and tucked her loose, wild hair behind her ears. "Shhhhhhh. I love you. I love you Katniss. And you aren't allowed to leave me. Prim said, right?"

My one and only heart-to-heart with Prim was a silly moment really. I had offered to give Katniss a ride to school and surprisingly she took me up on the offer. I barely knew her then, and she didn't have many belongings to shove into the trunk of my car, but I knew this didn't because she had her. Prim was something special, something infinitely precious. Katniss was never good at goodbyes so after she kissed her sister on the forehead she silently headed for the passenger seat, leaving the two of us alone. It was then that Prim hugged me close and whispered harshly into my ear, "You take care of her. Watch her and don't you dare let her leave you behind. I'm counting on you Baker Boy."

Prim's innocent smile as she pulled back from the hug masked the surprisingly menacing message she left me with. I got into the car, my face pale and eyes wide. Eventually I explained everything to Katniss and she let her scowl drop, laughing so hard tears ran down her face at the thought of her baby sister threatening me.

"Well, if you're meant to be my watcher Mellark, you better learn how to keep up with me." It was then I first saw her playful grin for the first time. She bit her bottom lip and it was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. I knew then I was a goner.

"Right." Katniss began again, breaking me out of my reverie. "But you don't love me the way you're supposed to."

Instead of answering her I pulled her into my chest, cradling her gently. She wouldn't remember this tomorrow.


	7. Apostrophe

**Trigger warning, domestic abuse, for this chapter. The reference is somewhat mild, but just FYI.**

**_Peeta:_**

I woke up nearly smothered by a thick nest of ratty, russet hair. While we slept Katniss and I had shifted and sighed until it seemed we were irrevocably conjoined. She was on her back while I was on my stomach, my arm gripping her waist and my face nestled into her neck and loose locks. Our legs were pressed more intimately against each other than I knew she'd be comfortable with.

This was not a forgiving situation for my morning wood.

I slowly pulled my arm back across her stomach, reveling in the way the muscles in her abdomen unconsciously tensed at my languid attention. The shirt I let her borrow last night had inched up slowly in the night, revealing all but her breasts. She still smelled distinctly of liquor. In this moment she was radiantly innocent, so completely trusting and lying supine before me. Sometimes I wished I could just capture her in these moments, before she jolted awake and remembered all of her guilt and became a whirlwind of anxious activity.

I leaned forward and pressed a slight kiss to her temple before grinning and lightly grabbing her arm to jostle her awake.

"Rise and shine, _sweetheart_!"

She pushed me off of her and grunted. "You sound just like Haymitch."

She attempted to pull the covers back over her head but I caught her arm and stilled her.

"Speaking of our dear ol' boss, I have another chapter or two to bang out before Monday, so I'm making breakfast and kicking you out… _darling_."

She finally opened her eyes and looked up at me pathetically, "Okay so there's that... _but_ I'm also pretty sure there is a small alien-being attempting to hammer it's way out of my skull _and_ the room is still spinning. Take pity on my poor, sorry soul."

I chuckled softly, rising from the bed only to reach down and yank the covers completely off the bed.

"No pouting Everdeen. I tended to your poor soul, and fist, last night."

At this she brought her hand up to her face and groaned when she saw the bandaged, bloodied mess.

Still staring at her hand she let loose a heavy sigh, "If you let me shower here and tell me exactly what happened last night I will be eternally in your debt."

We were perpetually in debt to each other, so I didn't bother answering her beyond a small smile. Lately, she owed me far more than I owed her, but I let it go. After my oldest brother died senior year and my mother and father took off shortly after, she essentially wrote my thesis for me. Hell, she basically dragged my wounded ass through the entire year. She said she understood. Though Prim died suddenly and Bane's cancer ate away at him for as long I could remember, their deaths were still a shock. She was the only person who understood that. At the end of the day Primrose and Banneton were here, and then they weren't; no matter the circumstance.

I crossed the room to my dresser and pulled out a pair of basketball shorts that surely wouldn't fit her, but might just cover her enough for me to get through this morning. I tossed them on the bed and made my way to the door.

"I'll tell you about your fun, fun night over breakfast!" I exclaimed, smiling almost manically, mimicking my publicist Effie, "Oh, and I'll make something with bacon and cheese."

For the first time that morning she looked up at me with a smile.

"You know I'll always be in your debt right?" She is smirking but I can tell her face is almost uncomfortably contorted. "I'll never deserve you."

I try to keep my face blank as I remember what she whimpered to me last night, _"You don't love me the way you're supposed to." _I want to believe that she's saying exactly what I want to hear, what I've wanted to hear for years… but I know this is just another thing she feels guilty about. Another thing she feels she can't repay.

"Hey! We look after each other, right Kat?" I try not to smile at the way she blanches at her least favorite nickname. "It's you and me against the world. You're never going to leave me behind and I'm never going to let you go."

Finally she gets up and slowly makes her way over to me. She plants a soft kiss on my cheek before picking up the pants I laid out for her and heads towards my bathroom.

Many times we could have abandoned each other, probably to our own personal benefit, but somehow we've developed a strange allegiance to one another. At the end of the day it would always be the two of us against the powers that be.

I learned long ago that the best way to protect her was to never touch her. It was a sacrifice I was still learning to live with.

* * *

"So exactly how much do you remember from last night?"

Katniss sits across from me, pushing the now cold scrambled eggs around her plate. The shirt I let her borrow is hanging off her shoulder, and instead of her bare flesh turning me on, I can't help but think I should feed her a couple more pieces of bacon.

She begins talking to her nearly full plate, "Well, I remember being with Johanna, and everything was going okay. But then I got a missed call from Mom and instead of answering I ordered a couple of shots and reached into the pill bottle she handed me last time I was home."

She paused there and stuttered fruitlessly, trying to get the rest out. She frequently complained about having a mother who was both a nurse and a junkie, so whenever Katniss mimicked her behavior she tended to lose who she was for a few days.

"N-Next thing I know I was with Gale." She lets out a heavy sigh and her fork clatters down her plate. "And that's it."

We are both silent for a few beats.

"So how did this happen?" She says gesturing to her bandaged hand.

"You put your fist through my bathroom mirror."

"Oh," she breaths softly, studying everything in the room but my face when I begin to talk.

"Look, I get that you were upset last night… and it's ridiculous for us to think that you'd be fine just a year later..."

Her shoulders visibly tensed, and I could tell she was curling into herself, but if I was going to keep playing the part of the knight in sullied armor, I needed to know where the other cast of characters fit in.

"…But I don't understand why you call HIM."

Once again, cold gray eyes met swimming blue.

"I don't really know." Her eyes drop down until she's fixated on her hands.

"Honestly, I think it's because I spend so much time thinking about the car accident, and how if I had just moved around my plans for that day, or even called her and told her to sit tight for ten more minutes, how I wouldn't be sitting here feeling… so fucking hollow."

I recognized the small hitch in her breath, but let her continue.

"I can run through all the 'what ifs' I want Peeta, but he's the only one with answers. He was the only one that was with her when she died. So as much as I fixate on the accident, I fixate on him driving."

She lets out a heavy sigh and runs a hand through her knotted hair, tugging sharply at the ends where her hand gets stuck.

"If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that we're both really good at punishing each other. When I'm with Gale I get to be as angry as I want to be. Most of the time I hate him, but he's the only other person I know that's as haunted as I am. I can taste death on him and I crave it. It makes me feel more whole. I feel like I deserve it; just like the few jabs and pushes after it all happened."

She hung her head a bit lower, her voice almost a whisper, "I berated him. I pushed him until he didn't have a choice. We were both hurting and I lashed out. How can I blame him?"

I reach across the island in the kitchen and lift my hand to her cheek. It's moments like these that scare me the most.

"Please talk to Dr. A again, Love."

At this she rolled her eyes, "you know I hate it when you call me that."

"That's not what you said last night," I reply playfully, smiling at the red flush spreading over her cheeks.

It's then that the door slams open and I quickly pull my hand back and turn around to stare at a fuming Clove.

* * *

Clove and I have been shouting in the bedroom for a good half hour and I can only imagine how Katniss is feeling, left cowering in my kitchen.

"It always comes back to her, and I'm tired of it!" Clove is poking in me in the chest and glowering up at me.

"You know that's not true. You are _always_ my priority. It's just hard for her around this time of year," I try to desperately explain.

"It's always _sooo_ hard for her Peeta!" Clove throws her arms up in frustration. "When are you going to realize it's not your job to take care of her? She's a big girl and you're not her fucking therapist."

I'm open my mouth to tell her exactly how selfish I think she's being when she cuts me off, "Don't you dare tell me I'm acting crazy. I come home to find another woman, a woman you were in love with all throughout college, dressed in your clothes."

My mouth shuts at this. As much has I hated to admit it, she had a point.

"Don't think I didn't notice the lack of blankets on the couch either. I know where she slept last night. How did it feel Peeta?"

I look at her, confusion coloring my features, "How did what feel Clove?"

"How did it feel to have her lying on my side of the bed? How did it feel to have her wrapped around you this morning?"

It's then that I hear the scrapping of a chair against the floor in the kitchen, but Clove grabs the side of my face and redirects my attention to her.

"It wasn't like that." I spit out through gritted teeth.

"Don't fucking lie to me." Her hands squeeze harder on my cheeks. Despite the anger brewing in my stomach, I can feel myself getting harder under my sweat pants.

"Nothing. Happened."

It's then that she lunges forward and latches onto my lips forcefully. I grab her waist and jerk her roughly into my hips as she bites my bottom lip.

As we rip the clothing off of each other and she pushes me onto the bed, I think about what Katniss said about deserving punishment, and how that could sometime happen along with pleasure.

Clove alternately bites and sucks on my jaw and neck while she rides me frantically. I reach out and squeeze her breasts forcefully. As she moans plaintively and I feel my body stiffen below her, I think of lithe thighs replacing the muscular ones pressing against me. I think of whimpers and sighs instead of the grunts and loud moans currently filling up my bedroom. But most of all, I think of stormy gray eyes fixed on my own as I shudder beneath her.

* * *

Clove rolls off of me and falls asleep almost immediately, but I deftly shimmy out of the bed and pull on my boxers before making my way into the living room.

When I heard the scrapping of the chair against my floor, I knew that Katniss had bolted, but my stomach still sinks when I spot my shirt and sweatpants folded neatly on my coffee table. On top of the pile is a note, scribbled on a napkin with red lipstick:

"I'm sorry. Please tell Clove too."

What the hell did she wear home?

**Yo, I'm not used to an abundance of reviews (and by that I mean more than like, five)! Extra brownie points because they were thought-provoking and motivating and I love you all! So, thank you for the reviews and PMs! **


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